


to chain me down i give thee power.

by Hoffmannism



Series: bodies merged in nothingness and night [1]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Christmas, Dramatic Overuse of Commas, Faust (German literature), Faust quotes, First Kiss, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Freeform, M/M, Rated E just to be sure, Spoilers for s4 and s5 (the Prescott-arc), a surprising amount of deep talk, anyway this is too fluffy idek what i'm doing here, bc i'm completely useless apparently, honestly i don't know what this is, i mean there's not a lot of explicit sex going on, just like these two idiots they're stupid, might become the first part of a series but usually i'm too lazy for those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoffmannism/pseuds/Hoffmannism
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Ressler is lonely. Fortunately for him, so is a certain criminal.
Relationships: Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Series: bodies merged in nothingness and night [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597015
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	to chain me down i give thee power.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FalleNess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/gifts).



> My first TBL fic and the first thing I've written in English since the last Ice Age, probably.  
> Spoilers for the Prescott-arc (so, s4/5)!
> 
> Little late for Christmas but since it's my least favourite time of the year, I don't care, lol. (And yes, I love my commas.) 
> 
> Anyway, English is not my native language and this has not been proof-read, so sorry for any mistakes.  
> (And yes, I'm a sucker for classical literature, in this case Goethe's Faust.)
> 
> Also, apparently I just cannot write smut anymore so there's just a pathetic excuse for a sex scene in there lmao... i wish i could
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this and maybe leave a comment or something :D  
> Happy holidays!  
> -Karen

_Und Schlag auf Schlag!_  
_Werd ich zum Augenblicke sagen:_  
_Verweile doch! du bist so schön!_  
_Dann magst du mich in Fesseln schlagen,_  
_Dann will ich gern zugrunde gehn!_  
_Dann mag die Totenglocke schallen,_  
_Dann bist du deines Dienstes frei,_  
_Die Uhr mag stehn, der Zeiger fallen,_  
_Es sei die Zeit für mich vorbei!_  
  
_//_  
  
_And heartily!_  
_Whenever to the passing hour_  
_I cry: O stay! thou art so fair!_  
_To chain me down I give thee power_  
_To the black bottom of despair!_  
_Then let my knell no longer linger,_  
_Then from my service thou art free,_  
_Fall from the clock the index-finger,_  
_Be time all over, then, for me!_  
  
**(-J.W. v. Goethe - Faust)**  
  
  
_// // // // //_  
  
  
  
It's Christmas Eve and they're done for the day. The bad guy's behind bars and Cooper sent them all home to celebrate the remaining hours of said holiday; and honestly, Ressler would have preferred to keep working. At home he would be greeted by a few bottles of beer, some crappy movies and an empty bed. Maybe he'd call his mother, but a quick glance at his watch - 11pm - tells him that he'd better try tomorrow.   
  
So with a sigh he gets his coat and bag, wishes the team a good night and heads home. It's even lonelier than usual, really. Christmas is supposed to be celebrated with the family, with his loved ones, and he'd be sitting on his couch. Alone. Can't even spend it with the Taskforce; they all got families and relationships of their own. _Don't be so pathetic_ , he tells himself, _it's just Christmas._  
  
  
He comes home with melted snowflakes in his hair, a red nose and a sour mood. Telling himself it's not a big deal just didn't do the trick this time. Usually pretending helps, though. Maybe that's what makes it worse.   
He opens the door, too tired - emotionally - to mind his surroundings (why would he, anyways, it's his _home_ ), kicks his shoes into the corner of the room, hangs up his coat and when he turns to enter the living room, he notices the light. He instinctly draws his gun, ready to shoot whatever intruder thought he wouldn't be home on Christmas.   
  
  
"Ah, Donald, glad you could make it", he hears the voice before he sees the face of the man. It's Reddington. _Who else_ , he thinks, resigned, and puts the gun away. "I hope you don't mind that I took a sip or two of this godawful wine I found in the kitchen." And no, Ressler doesn't mind at all, because _(_ _of course)_ Reddington is right and the wine really is just _that_ awful. Maybe he should stop buying the cheap stuff, but, on the other hand, it does the job of getting him drunk far better done than any high-priced drink could. And after half a bottle he normally stops to notice the lack of taste anyway.   
  
"Help yourself", Ressler says. He's really not in the mood to fight. He lets himself fall into the armchair opposite the couch where Reddington sits. The older man watches him with attentive eyes that spark with - what? It's mischief, definitely, but that's nothing new. Now there's a certain kind of sadness in those eyes and maybe that's why Ressler doesn't throw him out immediately. Maybe he needs the unwanted company. Maybe Reddington is as lonely tonight as he is. Or maybe he's just imagining things. Maybe this is just business. Ressler doesn't much care. He isn't even angry about the home invasion, although he knows he _should_ be.   
  
"So", he says when Reddington doesn't respond, instead just keeps watching him, "the Hell are you doing in my living room?"   
  
"Please, Donald. No curses on the high holidays, He won't like it."   
  
Ressler rolls his eyes. Of course Reddington wouldn't answer his question. Why even try.   
  
"You think that cursing on Christmas Eve won't let me get to Heaven?" He actually laughs at that. "I think it's a little too late for that for me."   
  
But Reddington doesn't laugh. Doesn't grin or smile or so much as lift the corner of his mouth. So Ressler just grabs the bottle of wine that stands on the table between them and takes a gulp right out of it. It really tastes like crap.   
  
There's something in the room, between them, that Donald can't put his finger on. It's unnerving, really, and he probably needs more alcohol. He eyes the wine in his hands, shakes his head and makes for the cabin in the corner of the room where - hopefully - he will find something better. Stronger, too. And yes, there's a nice scotch, not too cheap, not too empty, and he sets it on the table along with two tumblers.   
  
"No Dembe?", he asks. It's weird, he thinks, that Reddington is so awfully quiet. Normally he can't shut up and now that he actually _wants him to talk_ , the man is cloaked in silence. He will never understand the mystery that is Raymond Reddington.  
  
"He has a family of his own. Celebrating the holidays", Reddington says. Ressler has filled both of their glasses with scotch and Reddington takes the first sip. That seems to lighten his mood - he sighs in content, his shoulders relax a little and his eyes glim with just a little less sadness than before. Ressler had never been able to read the man, but right now he's as open a book as his own mother.   
  
Don nods. Takes a sip himself. The scotch really isn't bad.   
  
"So", Reddington continues, "I thought I could drop by. I have no appointments, nowhere to be, no family to disappoint on Christmas, and I had a feeling you'd share this fate with me. I'm afraid I don't have a present for you, though, except my company."   
Ressler almost laughs; it's absurd. Here he has been hating and chasing the man for years, working for him then, and in all that time he can count on one hand the number of private conversations they've had. And now he sits on his couch, drinking his scotch, wanting to spend a lonely evening like it's the most normal thing in the world. God, he hates the man, he really does. Nearly as much as he wants to press him against the wall or floor or couch or whatever available surface and kiss him senseless.   
  
"And of all the people you could've visited, you came here?" It's not a question, really. He's just tired and wants to keep the conversation going. He really doesn't know where this night will lead to, although he can hope, always hope. "I always thought Christmas was the celebration of love. Aren't you worried that one of us doesn't survive your sentimental visit?"  
  
"I know", Reddington simply says. He's looking into his almost empty glass, obviously looking for the words to continue. Ressler takes another sip, waiting. He doesn't know if he meant what he just said. And then Reddington looks up again, right into Don's eyes, and he can see that Red doesn't want to fight tonight, doesn't want their everlasting conflict escalate, not even to be mentioned. Leave all morals.  
  
"Let's forget who we are for tonight. It's not us. It's just two lonely souls seeking comfort. Without pride, without history. Can you do that?"   
  
  
And Ressler doesn't know what to say at first. It's completely unexpected. The sincerity, the loneliness in Reddington's words, the pure, raw way of saying them - Ressler believes him. He wants that. To forget everything and just - let go. So he nods _yes_ , Red's eyes not withstanding, and empties his glass. When he looks up again, it's almost as if the dim light of the room has painted a golden halo around Reddington's head, born from scotch and untold hopes. Ressler blinks. The halo remains.   
  
"It's just... so damn hard sometimes", he finally says as he refills his glass and already downs half of it. He doesn't know exactly what he means yet. That will come. He just needs to keep talking - about Audrey, about the Taskforce, about the pills and the aching that he fears will never really vanish, about Hitchin and Prescott and his crippling soul. But the words won't come out. He doesn't know if they ever will. He might as well break into a million pieces.   
  
But Red doesn't ask. He just nods, refilling his glass. "I know, Donald." Takes a drink. "Sometimes I wonder if I can ever be happy again." And at that, Ressler looks up. He has always thought Reddington led the best life - a criminal one, yes, but one Red seemed to enjoy to bits. He gets to see the entire world, do whatever he pleases, food, women, money, all the things Red loves - _seems_ to love. And now Ressler has to wonder if all of this has just been a farce. An eternal chase after a piece of happiness. He swallows, looks down into his drink. Then he hears Red laugh and looks up again.   
  
"Oh, to cry out: _'verweile doch! du bist so schön!'_ just once! That's something I'd surely trade my soul for, too." He chuckles as he takes another drink.  
Ressler has no idea what he's talking about and it must show on his face. And he expects to be made fun of by Red, being told what an uncultured swine he is, but there's none of it.   
  
" _Faust_. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. It's the most important work of literature from Germany, I'm sure you've heard of it." And at that Donald nods, because of course he has. Unhappy guy, deal with the devil, some underage chick. He knows the basics. "I believe _'verweile doch! du bist so schön!'_ is the most popular quote out of it and, if I dare say so, probably one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful. That bittersweet longing for just a short glimpse of pure bliss, being willing to lose everything just for that moment - ah, Donald, wishing the blink of an eye to last forever. I want to feel that bliss just once, praying for it to _stay! thou art so fair!_ even with the knowledge that everything will be irretrievably lost afterwards."  
  
Ressler considers his words, then he chuckles. "I never took you for a romantic", he says while he asks himself if what Red's just told him isn't really the meaning of life. Chasing after the one moment of pure happiness.   
  
"I'm not", Reddington says and takes a sip, "but I believe a man should be allowed to dream."   
  
Ressler smiles, takes another sip; lost in thought. Reddington has never spoken so freely, openly - _sincerely -_ with him. _It's not us right now_ , Don reminds himself. They're strangers, drunk in a bar, ready to completely bare one's heart and soul, willing to share each thought, trusting enough to speak. No lies, no pretense, no history. He isn't sure if he's ever loved the man as much as he does in this moment, and when he looks up Reddington is watching him, all bright eyes and curiosity and _life_. So Don finishes his drink, sets the tumbler on the table and gets up, a bit wobbly at first but he quickly regains his balance. Red's eyes never leave him as he sits down next to the criminal now, on the couch, and a thought crosses his mind - _this is wrong, don't do it, you're gonna regret it, boy you're drunk and also_ stupid! _-_ but he ignores it. He's gotten fairly good at that.   
  
  
"We're not us, tonight. No pride, no history. You still mean it?", he says, and Reddington nods. So Ressler does what he had wanted to do all night, Hell, all year, if not longer, far, far longer. He kisses him, uncaring, forgetting all the consequences and regrets, pulling him nearer, closer, savouring the moment for the case that he's just fucked it all up. And it's good, and Reddington kisses back (with fire and lust and vigor) and soon Ressler slides on his lap, bowing his head to never stop the kiss, grabbing at clothing, skin, hair, anything he finds _(he needs)_. He feels Reddington's hands in his own hair, pulling and twisting, at his neck (he shivers at the thought of those hands choking him), then down his back, finally settling on his ass and Ressler moans softly into Red's mouth.   
  
"God, Red, fuck - yeah...", he murmurs under his breath, rolling his hips against the friction of his erection in his pants. Under him, he can feel that Red is hard too.

"Bedroom", Red says, and his voice is even deeper than usual, more urgent than Don has ever heard him, and he grins.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
There's no time for foreplay; it's a frantic fumbling for clothes, desperately feeling the other's warm body, groping and biting and bruising, and scratching and relieving. Donald has the condoms and lube right beside the bed; he doesn't much care for a proper preparation. Red does, though. It's maddening, really, but _good, so good_. It's almost too much when Red finally enters him, pressing Ressler's face into the pillows, and Don could have come then and there. He holds out, though.   
  
  
  
//   
  
  
  
Heavy panting fills the small room; Donald feels Reddington pull out of him, never losing contact to the sweaty body beneath him. Ressler turns his head, kisses Red's shoulder; turns around to face him fully.   
And Reddington lets his fingers wander up and down Donald's arm, sighting in content. "You're magnificent", he murmurs into the relative silence of the room.   
  
He closes his eyes; wishing Reddington would stay _(he won't, he knows)_ , but he would never ask him to. He has that much dignity left. ( _Although,_ he thinks, _we're not us._ )   
  
And then his phone rings and he groans. At this time of the day (night, more like) it has to be important. Work, most probably. A case. He pushes himself over Reddington so he can search the scattered clothes on the floor for his pants; finds them; fishes the phone out of its pocket. _Unknown Caller_. But Ressler knows very well who calls. And he doesn't like it.   
  
"Sorry, I gotta take this", he says, gets up and leaves the room. Closing the door behind him - hoping Reddington would think it's just work, just the FBI, hoping against hope he wouldn't hear the conversation - he answers the call.   
  
"Yeah?" His bad mood is right back.  
  
_"I've sent you an address. You better be there within the next hour"_ , is all Prescott says before hanging up.   
  
  
"Bastard", Donald mutters. He takes a deep breath, gets back into the bedroom and starts dressing.   
  
  
"Work?", Reddington asks, propped up on Don's bed, and he needs a second to take in that sight. Then, he needs another second to understand the question.   
  
"Yeah", he answers. It's not a lie, anyway. "Gotta go. Won't take long though. I hope."   
  
  
He looks at Reddington, still naked in his bed, and wonders if kissing him now would be too much. He does it anyway. He needs it. And if Reddington looks somewhat suspicious as to the short answers and overhasty departure, Ressler makes sure to ignore it.   
  
  
  
//  
  
  
  
  
And sure enough, when he returns home hours later, his flat is empty and his bed cold. 


End file.
